


Lessons

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 13:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3135407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 1.06: The Exiles. Aramis is curious about where Constance learnt to wield a sword. Constance is... distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Constance is amazing, you guys.

Aramis lingers after they reach Bonacieux’s home; he waves the others off, promising to meet them later at the garrison. d’Artagnan twists in his saddle to get one last look, grinning from ear to ear, hair bouncing, only to get a slap upside the head from Porthos for nearly crashing into an overhanging tree branch. Constance giggles—

Aramis clears his throat.

Constance feels her face redden. “Monsieur Aramis!” she says, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart and the sweet-sour taste on her tongue, the nervous twitch of her fingers, “would you like to come inside?”

“I was only waiting for you to ask, Madame,” Aramis says, removing his hat with a flourish and following her inside.

She busies herself by pouring out two glasses of wine; it’s been a trying sort of day, and she can use something to settle the curious lurch in her stomach when she thinks of d’Artagnan smiling at her as though she has hung the stars. Aramis contemplates his drink for a long, long moment that has her feeling embarrassed about downing half of hers in one gulp, before saying with a bright smile, “I have come to thank you, Constance. Not just for helping us and risking your life as you did, but also for saving my life with your inspired swordplay.”

Well, the wine clearly hasn’t helped, because she’s blushing harder than before. “Well—”

“Might I ask where this inspiration came from?” Aramis asks, a little too quickly, his eyes glinting.

She finishes the rest of her wine and decides she still doesn’t quite like the look on his face. “I was taught,” she says, and at Aramis’ raised eyebrows, elaborates, “By a man.”

His eyebrows complete an orbit on his forehead. “That narrows it down considerably, yes.”

“By an _idiot_ ,” she says, “who spent half the time laughing at me, I’m sure.” She remembers the helpless giggles when she’d first brandished an old, borrowed rapier at him, swinging it with a flourish and overbalancing. Remembers how he’d bracketed her again, moulding her completely to him, his feet guiding hers and his hand lifting hers higher and straighter and stronger, the tickle of his hair at her neck.

(“I can’t have you propping me like this everytime, you know,” she’d said.

“I can do what Athos does.”

“And what’s that?”

“Have the butcher’s boy drag your laundry through the pig sty, then hand you the rapier and say, _go_!”)

“… perhaps it is he who is the humorous one, for he is still making you laugh.”

Constance blinks. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t—”

“It is quite all right, Madame,” Aramis says, getting up and putting his hat back on. “He has taught you well.” He takes her hand in his and kisses it. And he says, without lifting his eyes, his lips brushing her fingers: “It is just as important to protect your heart, Madame, and I’m afraid that can’t be taught—only learnt.”

Constance frowns, but Aramis straightens, smiles, and leaves. She considers his untouched glass of wine for a while, thinks of calloused hands sliding over hers and catching on her wedding ring, and empties the cup.


End file.
